


Of Being Old - - But Keeping Young

by mktellstales



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - But Not Really, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, John thinks he's old, Just Doesn't Necessarily Fit Into A Timeline, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sherlock is lazy, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7869595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home from a long shift to find Sherlock still in bed and the flat a disaster.<br/>Sherlock apologizes without even needing to be lectured on the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Being Old - - But Keeping Young

**Author's Note:**

> This is really just something I wrote up quickly this morning, but being stuck in a perpetual state of writers block ,and constantly battling with my long WIP's, I'm fairly pleased with how this little thing turned out.
> 
> Not edited, so you've been warned!

_ Pop! Creeeak. Grrrl. _

John stopped his slow ascent of the staircase to home and bounced up and down to make sure it was the old stairs underneath his feet making those awful sounds and not his body. Battle wounds notwithstanding, John was too young to be making noises like that. Or was he? He had just celebrated another day to bring him yet another year closer to 40.

His tired fingers fumbled with his keys in the lock of the door once he made it to the top. The damn, bloody thing never worked. 

When the warped grooves finally caught the latching mechanism, he pushed the door open, and immediately regretted coming home.

Dirty socks, the ashy remains of John's jumper, half drunk cups of tea, a bloody Samurai sword, yards of yarn, and papers...everywhere.

The flat was a mess, no it was beyond that - a disaster, a war-zone, real life stock footage of the aftermath of a tornado. What made it all the more worse was that it had been that way for the last three days, and John had been promised it would be cleaned up by the time he came home from his 12 hour volunteered shift at the A&E. 

Clearly, it was a promise not worth keeping. Sherlock had probably not even bothered to get out of bed. 

John pushed through the madness toward the bedroom and found him just as he'd been left that morning. 

He was too tired to wake him up for a lecture.

He undressed and started the shower in the bathroom next door. The hot spray felt fantastic on the ache deep in his muscles. 

Not from his impending old age, but from the brutal demand of a short staffed A&E. 

John stood and just let the water fall over him longer than what would have been considered conservatively necessary before he finally washed away all the grime and yuck of his day. 

Towel wrapped around his waist, he quietly padded back into the bedroom and used the light of his mobile to search the bureau drawer for a pair of clean pants since the shades were still drawn. 

John sighed. The washing needed to be done too.

“I don't actually think you'll be needing any pants.”

John jumped at the cut of Sherlock’s voice through the darkness. He hadn't heard even the faintest rustle of a sheet or a creak of the floor as Sherlock got out of bed and stalked over to stand right behind him.

He didn't turn to look at him, because Sherlock hadn't left enough room for him to - - John could feel Sherlock’s intention through the terry fabric still wrapped around his waist as he ran the whole of his hands over John's shoulders and down his chest. 

“I'm angry with you,” John said, firmly.

Sherlock dropped his head between John's shoulder blades, “You're always angry with me.”

His hot lips brushed against John's cooled skin, and any thought John might have had to tell Sherlock to sod off melted away under those red, pouty lips. 

He kissed down John's spine to the edge of the towel of which he'd slipped his hands underneath to massage the hard flesh of John's arse. 

“Not always,” John said. 

He could hear the self satisfied smirk that crossed Sherlock’s mouth and then the towel finally came undone and fell to the floor at his feet. 

Sherlock got down on his knees and licked a stripe into John's crevice which pulled a tiny, tangled whine from the back of John's throat. 

So, Sherlock did it again, and again. 

When they'd first started shagging, nearly a year earlier, John was worried Sherlock may not have had experience in matters of sex - almost all evidence seemed to support his hypothesis. 

He very quickly learned he was utterly and embarrassingly wrong. And though he sometimes felt bad that all of Sherlock’s sexual partners were only used for data collection, there were other times, like right then with Sherlock’s face buried into his arse, that John thought they deserved a personal thank you. 

“ _ Ahh _ , Christ -  _ yes _ .” 

Sherlock’s tongue pressed against John over and over, just barely breaking into the tight round muscle, and just when John thought the sensation was too much, it would flatten and slowly soothe his overdriven desire. 

John's cock leaked over the expensive rug they'd just bought to warm their cold feet in the old, drafty bedroom, and one, two, three strokes and it could all be over, but John resisted the temptation.

He, somewhat reluctantly, nudged Sherlock away and dropped down to the floor. When they faced each other, and John saw the swell of Sherlock’s lips, he pulled them into his own. 

They kissed and John got drunk on his own taste inside Sherlock’s mouth. His arms engulfed his head, and fingers pulled at his curls while Sherlock’s scratched down John's back. 

Their fury toppled them, but their hold on each other didn't break. 

John's weight was fully on top of Sherlock and he hitched his arm underneath his knee and they thrust together - cock rut against cock.

The room quickly filled with the sound of strangled breath and the scent of sex. 

“Fuck- -  _ you _ ,” Sherlock said.

John laughed at Sherlock’s inability to turn even two words into a charming statement. He loved when he was like that.

Not that he didn't love how Sherlock always was, of course he did. But there was a heady, sometimes dangerous feeling that came with making the world's foremost genius and utterly egotistical twat, incoherent.

Sherlock pushed John down on his hands and knees so his arse was high up in the air. 

The wooden floor killed, and he thought back to the stairs - If they kept fucking like this, it would be him that was popping and creaking.

One of Sherlock’s fingers, slick with spit, pushed into John, and John exhaled a deep moan.

God damn worth it if his joints started going to shite.

Another finger joined and as a pair they went deeper than the first. When he pulled out John expected to feel three fingers inside him next - it wasn't necessary, but Sherlock had thing about John's arse - eating it, fingering it - and John just let him do what made him happy. 

So, he was caught off guard when he was pushed back on Sherlock’s cock instead. 

He fell from his elbows down to his arms and his head hit the floor. What Sherlock may have lacked in girth, he more than made up for in length - in fact, it still proved to be a problem when John went down on him. The only other man John had been with didn't test his gag reflex the way Sherlock did.

“ _ Oh, Fuck _ Sherlock,  _ yess _ ,” John hissed as Sherlock’s grip turned John's waist white as a ghost and he snapped his hips. 

John managed to find strength to inch back on his elbows and reach back to touch whatever piece of Sherlock he could - a sweat soaked shoulder was what he found. 

He closed his eyes and pictured what he looked like, balls deep inside john - - hair matted to his forehead, bottom lip firm between his teeth, he might have even drawn a little blood at this point, and his eyes open so he could watch the flex of John's back, the spasm of his muscles as he tried to hold back the orgasm Sherlock was barreling him toward.

“ Sher...lck”

Now John had gone incoherent.

Sherlock made a glutteral, almost primitive sound, and John had no more strength to hold on. He pushed back against every thrust - painful in the most beautiful way imaginable. 

A string of sound: expletives littered with unknown versions of Sherlock’s name, and some of the only true proclamations to God he'd ever made, left his mouth as Sherlock abandoned all control and they fucked themselves into the brightest of oblivion.

They laid opposite each other, stuck to where they'd collapsed, legs tangled up. John's stomach was still on fire, but the rest of his body had gone numb. 

“ Sherlock?”  He called. 

“Mmmm?”

He was going to tell him to clean the flat, help him with the wash, and to go buy some bloody milk, because he knew damn well they were out, but he ached, and his bones groaned when he tried to roll over and sit up, so he thought better of it.

“I love you,” he said instead.

“mm. Love you too, John.” 


End file.
